Focus, Malikov.
I should be tracking Viktor Kozlov. That’s why I came to Vegas. A clean job. Viktor was a snake in the books, skimming two million from the Bratva’s casino operations like no one would notice. Igor wanted him found, wrung out, and buried somewhere the desert can rot what’s left.
And I would’ve done it. Quick. Clean.
But then the numbers didn’t add up. The trail didn’t just point to greed. It pointed to something deeper. A second ledger. A shell corporation in Cyprus. An account opened under a name only a Vetrov would dare use.
Timofey Volkov.
Igor’s golden nephew.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just cleaning up a theft. I was holding a live wire. One that sparked all the way back to thePakhan’s family table. Now, everything I touch feels wired to explode.
And that’s before the girl.
Before she wandered into my world by mistake. Before I had to decide whether to clean it up. Or keep her in it.
She wasn’t supposed to matter. She was a loose end. An inconvenience.
But now? She’s more than that.
She might have something.Might not.I’m not betting on miracles, but if there’s even a chance the system she has access to can spit out something useful, I need her in it. She gets the files in, Boris starts digging. That’s the job. Quiet. Fast. No more surprises.
She’s also the only one who might be able to help me prove what I already know: that Timofey is the real traitor, and Kozlov is just the puppet dancing on his dirty little strings.
ThePakhanhas total trust in that smug little bastard.
I tap the table once. Then again. It’s either that or put my fist through something. Timofey Volkov, always dressed to impress, always talking like he invented charm. Always five seconds late, just enough for the drama. Igor eats it up. Calls him family.
But blood lies. Bleeds just the same.
Igor doesn’t see it. Won’t. He’s too fucking paranoid about everyone else—especially me. Always watching me for signs of ambition, like loyalty and competence are threats now. And Timofey knows that. He’s using it. Sabotaging me from the inside out, while flashing that golden-boy grin and pretending he’s not the one pissing on the empire from the penthouse balcony.
Probably thinks Kozlov will take the fall. That the evidence won’t lead back to him.
He doesn’t know what I know.
And Igor? He’s about to invite the wolf to dinner.
I get the ping.
I glance at the screen. Thumb it open.
A message from Ksenia, Igor’s secretary:
Tomorrow. 3 PM. Pavilion Room. Mirage Penthouse Suite.
Of course it’s the fucking Mirage. Gaudy, overlit, bloated with ego. It fits. That’s where Igor holds court when he’s on this coast, like some washed-up Caesar with too much cologne and not enough clarity. “Family meeting,” Ksenia wrote. Translation: bloodbath with catering.
Suka.
Igor wants“absolute transparency.”
But if history’s any clue, what he actually wants is confirmation bias in a designer suit. If I walk in there without rock-solid proof, I’m not just risking exposure. I’m putting my head on the chopping block while Timofey holds the axe.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Lev.
He steps out of the bank like he didn’t just cause a minor HR crisis, whistling like a man who’s never been punched in the face for being annoying—though he has. Repeatedly. And every time, he smiled through it.
